Hostage
by cheesypicklesauce
Summary: CIA Agent Edward Cullen is seeing ghosts. Because he's pretty sure that Isabella Swan was murdered almost three years ago. But then, who is this anonymous dark angel that keeps thwarting every single operation his team sets out to complete?
1. Chapter 1

Aix-En-Provence, France is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, if you look at it from the right angle. It is full of that great French countryside, fine wines and delicious cheese and breads. There are many reasons to visit, one would suppose. Vacation, self-reflection, restoration. Perhaps if one were the type of person to enjoy little cottages, farm animals, and thick French accents, Aix-en-Provence would be an ideal location. Perhaps that's what Dimitri Komarov was doing there. Perhaps not.

"Komarov was last seen by a few of our operatives on the French border, about fourteen hours ago. Apparently, he has some friends in the French government, since he wasn't picked up immediately, and it was too crowded for our own people to make a move. Too many civilians could have been hurt." It was quite unusual for the Director of the CIA to be giving a briefing, which was made obvious by the unusually dead silent operations room. Analysts and field agents alike stood and sat stiffly, faces grim as they listened for every single detail, "This operation is going to be tricky. It's going to be dangerous and it's going to mean a lot for this country. We have to get Komarov out of Italy, and alive. I don't really care if he's missing a leg, but if that man dies, it will be all of our jobs. Got it?" A mumble of agreement rolled through the room. "McCarty will give you the details of the operation." Director Denali pierced her sharp blue eyes at each person in the room, before giving a grunt and walking out, her heels clicking on the marble floors. Once the door was shut, a loud gurgle of gossip spread throughout the room, long enough for Jessica Stanley to sneeze her lunch out, before Emmett McCarty's loud booming voice took over the building.

"I know the name Komarov is a huge deal for us. I don't want that fact to get in the way of bringing this guy in. I don't know if you all have noticed, but our past few operations have not gone as planned." Emmett gave a pointed glare across the room to a pod of brown-haired analyst interns, who were fiddling with their thumbs. "Cullen you're running point with Black-" And with that, the room erupted again. I erupted out of my seat, a flying ball of fury.

"The hell I'm running point with Black" I spat rather unceremoniously, "Black isn't even in the CIA. He's in FBI!"

"Cullen! It would serve you well to curb your tongue," Emmett said harshly, "I will speak with you about this later," He straightened his tie before continuing in a louder voice, "We will put together an Alpha team. I want every single analyst on the clock when this mission runs. We're going to need all the hacking capabilities we can get. The rest of you, make yourselves useful, or go home." And with that, bodies began bolting around the room. I, however, stormed right up to Emmett, and shoved my face into his.

"Emmett, man, come on. Black? You know I can't stand him." I practically begged. It was true. Black and I just weren't made to be friends. Or acquaintances. We weren't even good enough to be enemies. He just gave me a look.

"You know very well that Black is the overseeing agent on the Swan case." He said quietly.

"Yeah, I know. But since when does Komarov have anything to do with Isabella Swan?" It's not like she'd went off and joined the greatest Russian mobster to live in the 21st century. I mean… she's dead.

"He doesn't. James does." Well that made a lot more sense. James Warren (a rather emasculating name if you ask me, so we just call him James) is possibly the most wanted man in the state of Washington, ever since he allegedly killed four students in a school hostage situation, one of them the police chief's daughter, and my sort of best friend. I say sort of because she and I had kind of a really messed up relationship, one that I don't really care to get into right this moment.

"The CIA and FBI never work together on these cases." I murmured.

"I feel as though you should get used to it Cullen, because nothing is going to change between now and whenever James' sorry ass is either incarcerated, or at the bottom of the Pacific." Emmett thumped me on the back, and turned to go talk to our Chief Analyst, and his lovely fiancé, Rosalie Hale.

I feel as though I owe some sort of explanation for this tomfoolery of a life I am living. Ten years ago, when Rosalie, Emmett, my little sister Alice, her boyfriend Jasper and I were in high school, Forks High School was taken into a hostage situation by a very large group of criminals, today known as the company Isis, run by James Warren. I guess you could say after the entire situation, James' criminal career kind of took off. Anyway, the hostage situation left, like I mentioned before, four students dead, brutally murdered. Isabella Swan was the chief's daughter. She was blown up. In front of everyone. Sacrificed herself to die so that James would let all the other students live. James was claiming to be getting revenge on Chief Swan, for killing his family. So he killed the Chief's family in return. Classy.

The past two years, the FBI and CIA have simultaneously been trying to track these guys down, get something dirty on them to put them away for good. Unfortunately, their work is impeccable. Never have we found one paper, fingerprint, or digital record of anything that could put anyone away for any amount of time. Every murder is a frame job, every scam is done remotely, and each network is secure. It's like trying to break into the White House: virtually impossible. Then, there's the limitation of the law. The FBI has their jurisdiction, and we have ours. And it's not like we're about to try to work together on it.

The worst part is, that these people are American. They're not Russian or Italian, like I kind of wish they were. They are one hundred percent Americano, which makes them even more impossible to touch. I have no doubt in my mind that there are moles within the CIA that work for these people, and that one day, if they're not stopped, they will cause wide-spread damage to every government agency in this country.

As for where I come into this situation, yes it is true that I am personally attached to Isabella Swan. She killed my mother in a car accident when she was fifteen. I hated her. When she died, I still kind of hated her. To be completely honest, I still kind of hate her. Though the feeling has dulled a little bit, considering she died. Maybe that makes me an asshole, or emotionless, or a dick. But that's what makes me a damn good agent. I'm not mentally unstable. I just don't let my emotions rule my life.

The five of us – Rosalie, Emmett, Jasper, Alice and I – I think the whole incident has stayed with us the past ten years, no matter how hard we try to trick ourselves into thinking that it hasn't. Rosalie, Emmett and I joined the CIA together, Rose as an analyst, Emmett and I as field agents. Unfortunately, I was a little bit less motivated than Emmett, and drank my way through most of college, and had a six year undergraduate college education. I pulled myself together in the last two years, however. Sober for four years, wassup. Eventually I worked my way up to join the CIA. Through which time Emmett has become an operations manager, and subsequently my boss. Rose is really good at what she does, probably the best actually. She's too smart for the way she looks. It kind of freaks me out. Me? I'm just good at fighting. I have a lot of… anger and abandonment problems I suppose would be the best way to put it.

Alice and Jasper work as affiliates to the CIA. Alice does our hard-core wardrobe. You know, flame-retardant jump suits, super tricked out suits, the best of the best. Jasper serves as an aid for agents out in the field. He's super rich, ever since he patented this erasable pen (and I don't mean the shitty ones you get at Target with ink so light the first time you use it you think it's already out of ink. I mean hardcore, ballpoint pens that cost so much money your college savings couldn't afford it. The government really eats that shit up). His stock is worth millions, and he keeps getting more and more money. All that over a pen. Maybe I should patent a reusable tampon. He owns one hundred seventy two houses across the world, each equipped with a high-end security system and enough ammo to last a third world war. Anyway, when working long-term out in the field, Jasper and Alice are the go-to handy couple of the year.

"Cullen, are you even listening to me?" Emmett's loud thunder of a voice brought me out of my reverie. He and Rosalie were standing in front of me now, staring me down with that "you need to get laid" look I hate more than life. I glared at him.

"Dude. Calm down. We'll get him." I murmured, before patting him on the shoulder.

As I walked away, I could hear him complaining to Rose, "He wasn't even listening to me. He really needs to like get drunk or something. He looks like death."

Rose scoffed, "That's not death, Emmett. That's the look of a man who's about to have a dick fight with Jacob Black."

"_Bonjour Monsieur, comment allez-vous, aujourd'hui?" _

"_Bien. Où est l'hôpital le plus proche__?"_

"_Le Centre Hospitalier du Pay d'Aix est deux blocs plus. Pourquoi, vous êtes malade?"_

"_Non, vous êtes."_

A gunshot rang out over the audio, followed by the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the floor.

"This was a conversation recorded about three hours ago. One of our analysts picked it up though a police radio channel in Aix-en-Provence France. It was between a French policeman, and as our vocal recognition software has just confirmed, Dimitri Komarov. For those of you that speak no French, Komarov is either looking for a hospital, or attempting to recreate the latest Scary Movie mockery. He most likely did not account that the officer's com button was pushed down during the conversation. We got very lucky on this one." Emmett was terrible at giving these speeches. His audience consisted of me and Jacob Black, the air crew, and our scanty alpha team, which consisted of a bunch of thick-boned small-brained power houses. I wanted to fall asleep already.

"We now know his location. We are flying into Charles-de-Gaulle in Paris, and we will immediately take the train down to Aix-en-Provence. The extraction team and I will be stationed in Marseille. Not too close, not too far. Once you retrieve Komarov, you need to contact me immediately. We will not have time to go back to Charles-de-Gaulle. It will be too risky."

I am so bored. The audio was continuing to roll in the background.

"_Je ne sais pas pourquoi vous avez dû le tuer_." It was a female voice now. Scratchy, and bossy. She sounded annoying.

"_Stop speaking in French, darling, you'll hurt yourself._" The thick Russian accent of Komarov said in English this time.

"_But you love it when Isabella speaks French_." The female voice pouted. I froze.

"What was that?" I said out loud. Emmett stopped rambling, and furrowed his brow at me.

"Edward, were you even listening?" Black snapped. But I wasn't. I grabbed for the remote, rewound the recording, and played it back again.

"_But you love it when Isabella speaks French." _The woman said again.

"_Isabella's voice is like honey. Yours is like cats dying." _I heard rustling, probably as the two checked the dead policeman.

"_I heard she has herpes." _Ew.

Komarov chuckled, "_She does not, my dear Victoria. Isabella's body is as exclusive as yours is used." _Ouch. I heard Victoria whine. How mature.

"_Then why didn't you bring her on this mission?" _

Komarov again laughed, "_Because she is already tasked out to another. James wanted to use her for something a bit more…exciting. Now stop your pouting, and destroy this body. I don't want anyone finding it." _At that moment, the radio was picked up off the body, and the audio shut out. I looked at Emmett, to see his mouth hanging open slightly, eyes wide as he stared at me.

"Why wasn't that audio included in the report?" I asked him quietly.

"The analysts deemed it irrelevant to the case. I guess they weren't looking for that name like we are. They have to go through hours of chatter from millions of sources." A look of confusion came over his face, "You don't think that could be our Bella do you?" There was a little crack in his voice. Bella was like a little sister to Emmett. She would be around twenty-two years old now. A shudder ran down my spine.

"But they were talking about her like she was a part of the team, not like she was some kind of prisoner. This is crazy. Bella is dead. We all saw her die." Black cut in. But the association to the name was something none of us could shake. Especially spoken in context with James. I heaved a sigh.

"We'll just have to come to terms with it. She's dead. They must have been talking about another Isabella." Emmett nodded slowly in agreement.

"It's a twelve hour flight. We might as well get some shuteye, rest up. I want you two up in five hours, I need a full prep on your ammo and suits. I don't think I need to stress anymore to you two how important this entire situation is."

"Yessir." Black and I muttered, full of sarcasm. I stood up and sauntered over to my little leather chair, and sat down, staring out the window. If Bella Swan was out there somewhere… but no. She can't be. She's dead. They identified her remains a long time ago. I mean all that was left was a bunch of charred bones, but it was her body. Dental records matched and everything. I went to her funeral. She was dead.

But something in the back of my head was continually bothering me. Probably just the stress from the mission, really. Everything was going to go perfectly tomorrow. We would extract Komarov from France, bring him back to the States for questioning, millions would be saved, and we would be one step closer to finding that son-of-a bitch James. I could do this.

Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

If looks could kill, Jacob Black would be dead right now. Is that too cliché? We sat next to each other on the train out of Paris, mouths shut, eyes piercing. I like to think that death glares are a specialty of mine, especially since I take to silence most of the time. Black and I were each dressed in our warmest outfits. December in France is not the same as December in California. Underneath layers of coats, gloves, and scarves were various weapons, combat knives, guns, etc. It wasn't as comfortable as you might think. Of course, each of us only carried two or three items each. Neither of us were the kind of agents to carry around lots of weapons. We were versatile, and trained in multiple combat settings. I like to think I could kill a man with a toothpick. I mean, if I nicked him just right in the jugular, you never know...

I was brought out of my reverie by Jacob's snort, "There's nothing quite like Paris in the winter". He gazed out of the window onto the city of Paris. The train didn't run much above ground in the heart of the city, but as we reached further outskirts, the countryside began to emerge as the train turned topside.

"It just looks really gray." I muttered unceremoniously. There was no point in attempting to make small talk with this man. He was about as exciting as a nail. My eyes gazed around at the yellowish train, the graffiti traversing the walls in small bursts of black and blue script. The lights above us cast a harrowed hospital-like luminescence. It was neither pleasant nor horrifically troublesome. My eyes strained to see past the rain-blotted windows to the green fields. There was really nothing quite like France in the winter.

"What do you think will happen?" Black suddenly said. My head snapped towards him, and it took a moment for me to register that he had spoken again. In response, I could do little more than shrug.

"How do you mean?" I guess I just replied out of courtesy: I didn't really want to answer.

"With this... vacation. Do you think it will be successful?" He said cautiously. I snorted. As if vacation were the proper substitution for "mission" in this case. I half grinned at Black's innate stupidity.

"I can't say that I know. I'm not psychic." Dumbass. Why would he ask me something like that?

Black rolled his eyes at me, and nudged me in the side, "Shut up. You have to be thinking about it a little more significantly than that." I knew what he was thinking about. Isabella Swan. Her name in the recorded conversation seemed to irk both of us a little bit. I don't really fancy ghosts coming back to haunt me. And it was probably completely coincidental that her name was brought up in the first place. But that name had affected my entire life, and I know that it was one of the only cases that Jacob Black had never cracked. The name held significance to both of us. I had been trying my best to block the thought from my brain for the most part. But as of yet, Black was making it very difficult to.

"She's gone, Black. You need to move on." I muttered and turned my head slightly away.

"I know that all evidence seems to point towards that. But it still doesn't help that... they never found the body." He voice slowly faded into a whisper. I sighed.

Black was convinced that the whole thing was some sort of conspiracy covered up by the government. A girl's body is blown up, but her skeleton is never found. I don't know, maybe they used a special bomb and the bone fragments were practically vaporized. But, as scientists will point out, that would require a bomb of near nuclear power, and the radius of damage would have far surpassed just Bella Swan. "I don't do forensics, man." Was all I said, before effectively huffing and ending the conversation. Black opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but after I twitched my eye at him, he closed it and settled back into his seat.

Four hours and several buses later, we had arrived in Aix-en-Provence. Black and I stepped out into the brisk air, and my boots crunched into the white snow beneath me. I side glanced at Black, before heading towards the nearest café. "I think I need some coffee." What I really needed was some warm weather where my fingers would be thawed enough so that I could successfully locate our hotel on my phone. But, some coffee wouldn't hurt either. We had just been travelling for over nineteen hours.

Another forty-five minutes, and Black and I were settled in our two bed hotel room, the size of my closet at home. It was around nine-thirty in the evening. That's vignt-et-un heures et demie if you're French. The next two hours were spent setting up various pieces of equipment, AKA, our computers and radio ear pieces. Drawing maps, going over the plan over and over again. By 11:30, my brain was seeing lines that no longer existed on the maps, so Black and I decided to call it quits. Tomorrow was going to be long day, and we would be awake in another four or five hours anyway.

* * *

"Alpha team, this is Agent Cullen and Agent Black checking in." I breathed into my mouthpiece. I was crouched behind a small thicket of bushes, in the middle of a very large residential area. The next house was almost a mile away. Black was four feet away from me, covering my back. Hopefully.

"10-4. We have your position. Cutting off all radio communication. Rendez-vous at twenty-one hundred."

Aix-en-Provence had never looked uglier. This part of the city was gray and dull, the fog and snow were bountiful everywhere. Dimitri Komarov had picked a decent place to hide. CIA analysts had traced Komarov's position to a little cottage on the outskirts of the city, thanks to a mistaken unencrypted radio signal from inside the house. And considering we had just seen an armed man enter the house minutes ago, it wasn't hard to guess how accurate said signal was.

"We kill anything that moves, except for Komarov. Got it?" I whispered back to Black. He just gave me a look, "Right. You got it." I turned back and heaved a sigh. I watched the house for a point of entry. It was an old brick building, with a bright red door that stuck out like a sore thumb against the generally pale atmosphere surrounding it. The windows each had thick blinds covering them, and I could see a small stream of smoke rising out of the chimney stack. Someone was definitely home.

A man in a beige trenchcoat suddenly emerged in my peripheral. He was crossing the street, looking around like he had something to hide. "I think that's our guy," Black whispered. I nodded. I could see the bulge of a gun on his chest. What an idiot. Black and I moved forward through the shadows, out of the safety of our bush, and into what would have been open air, except for the fog. Our movements were silent, even in the thickness of the snow. We are the best at what we do, after all. Black hailed the right side while I flanked the left. Black crept up on the man as he fiddled with the front door. In a matter of seconds, Black had the man on the ground in a headlock. In twenty seconds, the man was unconscious. Black hauled the body around the side of the house, where no one would find him until the next patrol.

And with that, we headed inside. Black silently shut the door after him, and we were both surprised to find the foyer completely empty. I could hear voices coming from the upstairs, but both Black and I knew it was important to clear the downstairs first. We moved silently across the wood floors, covering each others backs, and pointing our guns for the kill shot. We entered the living room first, and I honestly felt like I was in my grandmother's house. The walls were covered in floral wallpaper, the floor decorated by a faded blue rug. Each chair was antique and dusty in nature. The windows were barred with metal. Nice touch. I shuddered at the oddness of the situation.

Black gave the all clear. We moved into the kitchen. Gas stove, and it didn't sound like the refrigerator was running. I looked into the sink; it was empty. So they weren't necessarily living here. There were no dishes to be found anywhere. I tried the stove; it didn't turn on. Black shrugged. I nodded, and we moved forward into a dining room. Both of us stopped in our tracks.

There was a...swan? In the middle of the table. It's neck was long and curved, feathers disturbingly white. It was obviously not alive. Very dead. Perhaps stuffed. Perhaps cooked. I didn't really want to know. It was the only thing in the room, other than the table. There were no chairs, no tablecloth. Just a small round table, with a swan in the middle. There was something very off about this. I shrugged off some chills. Black and I moved forward again.

We both moved more cautiously. I was beginning to feel as though someone knew we were there, though we hadn't made a single sound. Finally we moved up the stairs, trying hard not to make the floorboards creek. As we reached the top, there was only one room at the end of the hallway. There were several voices emerging from the room, where the door was slightly cracked. We moved down the hallway, and Black peered into the door. His eyes widened. He signaled for me. Komarov was here. I held my gun with purpose, and raised it, as Black motioned for himself to open the door.

I nodded, and he counted down to one with his fingers. Three...two...one. Black kicked the door open, and immediately, bullets were flying. I dropped behind the door frame, after catching a glimpse of the inside. Four or five men, all armed. Komarov sat by the window, and I saw the look of pure shock on his face. Bullets whizzed past my face. Black had entered the room was shooting heartily. I followed quickly, ducking behind a desk, firing shots aimed towards the henchmen.

"Shoot them!" The Russian screamed. No shit, Sherlock. I reloaded my gun, and swung back around beside the desk in enough time to knock down one of the five men in the room. He writhed on the floor with my skillfully placed shot to the chest. Black took down another, this time, shot in the head. One shot broke the light fixture above us, spewing hot glass everywhere.

I ducked and rolled under a table in the corner of the room, pulling it onto its side to protect myself. I fired shots over the top, as I watched Jacob fighting with a man in the corner. They were chasing each other around the room, knocking over bookshelves and tables, spilling glasses ont he floor. He was making a goddman mess.

One of the men charged at me, and I whipped out my knife. He got a few well placed punches in, before I easily swept my hand across his jugular. He bled to death on my new shoes. God damnit.

I huffed and wiped the sweat off my face, before turning and easily throwing my knife through the next man's eye socket. Black was still in hand-to-hand combat with the last of the henchmen. He's got it. I'll take care of Komarov who was currently fighting his way through piles of carnage to get to the door. I grabbed him by the cuff of his jacket, and knocked his head against the wall, rendering him unconscious. His body dropped to the floor, and I nudged him with my foot.

This was too easy. There was definitely something wrong here. I looked around. Bottles of alcohol rolled around the room. Vodka and beer. I sniffed Komarov. Ew. He needs a bath. He smells like rubbing alcohol.

I heard a crack and a thud behind me, and looked around to see Jacob wiping his hands, "Was it just me, or was that way to easy?" He looked just as confused as me. "Lets get him downstairs where it's a bit cleaner."

It took us a good ten minutes to wrestle Komarov down the stairs. Our getaway car was almost a half mile away, and without any radio communications to call for backup, we would have to lug Komarov there ourselves. I groaned as we finally got him down the stairs and into the living room. He would come to soon; I checked his body for weapons, and surprisingly found none. I quickly handcuffed him to the bars over the window, and took a step back.

"I'm gonna go to the kitchen, see if I can find some water to wake him up." He walked away, leaving me, my gun, and an international criminal alone. I just stared at the man that had evaded us for such a long time. He had a gray mustache to match his gray balding head. His face was pale and leathery, everything but his nose, small. He had bushy eyebrows, and he looked like he belonged more in a retirement home than in the Russian mafia. Suddenly, Komarov groaned, and lulled his head around. He was coming to! His eyes opened lazily. He took one look at me, and a panic came over his face.

"You! There was a woman. Sergey wanted a prostitute, and she came!" He continued ranting, quite like a madman. A woman? Here? We hadn't seen anyone other than the five men in the house. I was just about to open my mouth to call to Black, but he beat me to it.

"Cullen! You may want to take a look at this!" He called to me. I sighed, left Komarov to his ramblings, and walked to the kitchen. Black was no where to be found.

"Where are you?" I called, curiously.

"In here." He called from the dining room. I slowly walked towards the doorway, and froze in my tracks. The swan, which had been a beautiful white, was now blood red. And when I say blood red, I mean, there was blood covering the entire animal. It wasn't paint. It wasn't tomato sauce. That was blood. I could smell the metallic odor from here. "There's something very wrong going on."

Suddenly, Komarov screamed, "She's here! She's here!" And a shot rang through the house.

"Shit!" Black and I both screamed at the same time. We ran into the living room, evidently too late. Komarov lie on the floor, a clean gunshot dotting the middle of his forehead perfectly. Black and I raised our guns, on high alert.

"We've been compromised. There's something going on here, and I have no idea what." I muttered. Black nodded.

"You cover the left side, I'll cover the-" Black never got to finish his sentence before a deafening blow rang through the house. My ears registered it before my eyes did, as a giant cloud of flames rolled towards my body. My body shot back into the wall, and my spine cracked against the brick before I thudded to the ground. My lungs coughed out smoke, as my eyes rolled around in my head, attempting to refocus on the reality around me. My wrist ached like never before. I felt small cuts around my body, and it refused to move. I groaned and forced myself to pick my head up. I moved my fingers. Good I wasn't paralyzed.

"Black!" I called out. "Black are you there?" I could barely hear over the crackle of flames around me. My stumbled to my feet, coughing over and over again.

I saw a figure through the smoke. Dressed in slimming black clothes, her beautiful curls falling over her shoulders, the woman I hadn't seen in almost ten years looked back at me through the flames. Her eyes were wide, like a deer caught in headlights. She stared at me with big beautiful brown eyes. She seemed so perfect. Like an angel.

"Bella." I whispered. I must be dead. I am dead. She is dead, "Bella!" I yelled out. Suddenly, my body was taken over with uncontrollable coughs. I fell to my knees, and grappled at me chest.

"Cullen!" I saw Black suddenly in front of me. I wanted to push him away, so I could see Bella again.

"No! Move! Bella!" Those few words sent me into a coughing fit.

"We gotta move, Cullen, before the fire hits the gas line." I groaned as he helped me to my feet. We stumbled towards the door. Black kicked it open, and we nearly fell outside into the white snow. My blackened hands fell beside me, and I felt like I was outside of my body. Black pulled me onto my feet again and towards safety.

"I saw her Black." I muttered, as he dragged me through the snow.

"You saw who?" He said curiously, through heavy breaths.

"Isabella Swan."

And with that, the entire cottage behind me burst into a giant mushroom cloud of flames.


End file.
